


the benefits of a cupbearer

by loserrobin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Bad Parenting, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Samwell-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loserrobin/pseuds/loserrobin
Summary: Concept : Sam is cupbearer to House Tyrell at a young age. He becomes bffs with Margaery and Loras and after his stay, visits often. During a visit, he is guests with two northerners from House Stark, Robb Stark, Margaery’s betrothed, and Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell.Setting : Canon verse.Warning : Little angst, little fluff, arranged marriage (Robbaery), mention of bad parenting, mostly Sam centric.Word Count : 2000.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Samwell Tarly, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell (brief appearance)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	the benefits of a cupbearer

Highgarden is the most beautiful place Sam has ever seen, not that he’s travelled many places to know. At first all he could see was white stone, tall and chivalrous like three knights standing guard, then he was led through a thick shrubbery maze made of briar. He passed by the entrance to a courtyard and a large, decorative marble fountain, many of the walls covered in vines of ivy. Inside the palatial is where he meets Lord Mace Tyrell, accompanied by two sons and his only daughter.

“Welcome!” Mace Tyrell’s face is red and joyous as he ushers Sam closer. “Meet my sons, Willas and Loras, and my lovely daughter Margaery. You’ve had a long journey, let them lead you to your rooms and wash yourself before dinner.”

“Don’t rush him, father,” the feathery voice of Margaery chides him lightly. “Come, we’ll show you around then take you to your rooms.”

Without hesitation, Margaery steps forward and places a hand into the crook of his elbow, pulling him along before he even has a chance to introduce himself properly. He sputters his name and gratitude to them all, flustered at Mace’s laughter and the grins of Willas and Loras that don’t appear bothered by the quick events. Margaery’s light tone describes the significance of the statues they pass, wandering through colonnades into various courtyards filled with golden roses.

“Our house symbol,” Willas explains, although there is no need when House Tyrell’s banners and tapestries are strewn along multiple walls inside the castle. Sam tries not to stare at his slower gait, drawn in by the softness of his smile and kindness in his voice. “It always smells like roses everywhere you’ll go.”

Sam is momentarily distracted by the sound of a harp. “Someone is singing!”

“Fiddlers, singers, pipers. Music is encouraged here. Do you know the song A Rose of Gold?”

“I never heard of it. We don’t play many songs in Horn Hill,” Sam sheepishly replies.

“You’ll learn many,” Margaery assures.

\---

Most of his time is spent with Willas who prefers the quiet library and the weathered pages of books. He doesn’t make Sam feel self-conscious about his interest in history or his awkwardness in lapses of conversation. Today he consoles Sam on spilling wine at dinner while serving his grandmother, Olenna, a wickedly cunning old woman with a sharp tongue.

“She is hard to impress, truly.”

“I hope I didn’t get any on her dress.” Sam had felt terrible after the accident, rushing to get something to clean his mess up, knocking a second goblet over in the process. He must have looked like a harried pheasant trying to escape the clutches of a hungry cat.

Willas regards him for a moment, then puts the book they’d planned to discuss down. “I have something to show you. Will you walk with me to the kennels?”

Confused, but intrigued, Sam follows. The kennels are as spacious as the keep, hunting hounds wagging their tails and barking when they enter. Sam thinks they’re intimidating, sleek and large, eyes bright with eager energy.

“I’ve done many things to occupy my time,” Willas speaks, gestures around them. “I’ve bred hounds and horses, even hawks. When people don’t understand you, animals seem to.”

“I’ve never had any. Father won’t allow it.”

He’d wanted a dog when he was younger, but Lord Randyll was not impressed by his son’s lack of interest when it came to hunting, therefore he’d refused. He’d rejected many parts of Sam’s character infact.

“I was injured during a tourney. I have… disappointed my father, I know. I will never be as gallant as my brother, Garlan, or worthy of joining the Kingsguard like my brother, Loras. Mayhaps even as an heir, I am lacking. But there is strength in intelligence and kindness. Knowledge is also a sword. And friends come in many shapes and sizes.”

“You’ll make an excellent heir,” Sam spouts with certainty.

Willas’s smile is worth the moment of bravery. “Would you like to see my eagle?”

\---

Many years later, growing from green boy to young man, Sam still visits Highgarden as a bannerman. Willas had been sending him letters since his departure, also a lover of books who delights in literary discussion while Loras and Margaery had always expressed welcoming him back. The spring year has been good to the South and Sam is eager to try the harvest’s melons and peaches.

Upon his arrival a servant is waiting, getting him settled in before leading him towards one of the courtyards. Standing there are two figures he knows and two he is unfamiliar with. Loras notices him first, smiles brightly as he is waved over.

“Forgive me, am I interrupting?”

Sam approaches slowly, aware of the eyes that follow his every move. He feels too big in his clothes, palms sweaty from the nerves that skitter across his skin. Sam does notice the silver wolf sigil on one of the men’s shirts, blinking in surprise. The northern House Stark is powerful presence and to come all the way from Winterfell spelled an important meeting.

“Sam! It’s so good to see you again,” Margaery doesn’t miss a beat, detaching herself from one of the men to give him a greeting hug. She pats his cheek when they separate, a sparkle in her eye. “My betrothed has come,” she whispers with a smile,” and I want you to meet him.”

He gulps, but nods, clasping hands with Loras on his way over with her, finally turning to the two northerners. One has rose red hair, eyes bluer than water, and the other has darker features, black curls and eyes like onyx stones. From what Sam knows, the latter should be a Stark, at least from all the books he’s read of long faces and dark eyes and hair. He’s handsome, stare sending goosebumps up Sam’s arms when their gazes lock.

Color him surprised when Margaery takes the hand of the opposite. “This is my husband to be, Lord Robb Stark. This is his brother, Jon Snow. Meet our good friend, Samwell Tarly.”

Belatedly, Sam bows, breaking eye contact with Jon. When he straightens, Robb is smiling, looking pleasantly content to have Margaery pressing into his side. “Should I be jealous? My lady has talked fondly of you since hearing of your arrival.”

Red as an apple, Sam shakes his head, adamant. “Never!”

There’s laughter, and while Sam can admit privately that he had fancied Margaery in their youth, she’d become more of a sister and friend as they grew older. As they converse and begin to walk together, Sam falls a little behind, finding himself estranged by self-doubt. Loras, Margaery and Robb are engaged in heavy conversation, trading knowledge, jokes and praise. He’s never been good at lordship, much to his father’s chagrin.

“You’re from Horn Hill?” A rumbling voice shocks him out of his thoughts and self-pity.

Sam looks to his right and realizes Jon has stayed behind as well, by courtesy or choice. It takes him a moment longer to remember he’s been posed a question. “Yes! South of Highgarden. You… are from Winterfell.”

A nod, a somber expression. “Yes.”

_Think of something to say!_

“I hear your winters are something to behold. Hardly gets cold up here.”

The twitch of a smile. “Aye, we never have this many flowers or fruit. With piles of fur, the chill will still find a way through.”

“I’m looking forward to this year’s harvest,” he admits. “The fireplums are my favorite.”

This time does share with him a smile. “I’d like to try one while I’m here.”

“The peaches too. Highgarden is plentiful this time of year.”

Jon looks amused by him and Sam ducks his head shyly.

That night, restlessly he wanders the halls of the keep, the moon’s glow lighting the path his feet take him. He’s been up and down these halls countlessly as a cupbearer, seen every grove and hidden corner. Tonight he runs, surprisingly, into someone.

“Lord Tarly,” a dip of a head.

“Lord Stark!” Sam exclaims then covers his mouth in regret. Should Vortimer Crane be awoken, they both will be in trouble.

For the second time today, Jon is amused by him. “I’m no Stark.”

Sam has never found the bastardy customs necessary, but he’s decided not to argue. “What are you doing out here this late in the night?”

“Same as you,” casually stated with a raised brow.

Sam’s smile is sheepish, looking around before turning back to Jon. “I like walking the halls at night. It’s as quiet as the library and there’s no one to ask where you’re going.”

“Fancy a spot of freedom?”

He does. Jon tilts his head behind him and the two beginning walking in silence. Eventually, Sam’s nervous mouth opens. “Your brother must be happy.”

A snort. “He was knocking his knees together all the way here. Wasn’t too happy to learn he’d been arranged in a marriage. I say he’s lucked out.”

“She will make him happy,” a promise, although it’s not his right to say, truly.

“I’ve come in the Lady’s stead,” Jon volunteers to share, nose wrinkling. “My youngest brother Rickon has fallen ill. Feels strange to be so far from home.”

Sam can’t share the sentiment when he itches to run here every moment he can. “The sept is close… would you like to pray for your brother?”

It’s a kind offer and Jon stops to think. “The godswood.”

Instead of questioning it. Sam leads the way as he is more familiar with the twists and turns of the castle. He stands them infront of the Three Singers, an entanglement of three weirwoods in the center of a pool. Jon gets to his knees first and begins to pray, Sam following after. When they are done, they stand again, observing the curves of the weirwoods that splinter off into three trunks.

“Thank you,” gruffly spoken.

“I would do the same for my own.” Sam thinks of his sisters that he adores, and his brother that sneers at him for being weak.

He turns to say something else, but is startled to find Jon is watching him with those dark eyes, closer than before. He seems to be searching for something, for what Sam can’t begin to fathom. Sam wants to speak, inquire the expression he’s faced with, but there are no words, as dry as the sands of Dorne.

A hand, impossibly warm, fits against his cheek, the thumb pulling down his lip partially. Everything becomes focused on these points of contact. What is Jon looking for?

“You’re different,” whispered low from Jon’s lips. “And you’re hiding.”

“Hiding?”

“Like me,” solemnly stated. “We’re too different from what people expect of us, from what they want us to be.”

Jon is a bastard from a highborn house. He is heir to nothing and lord to no one. Sam, however, feels unfit and cumbersome, a heavy burden on his shoulders while being detested for having been born the first son. He feels relieved and fearful that someone can see right through him after knowing each other for a few hours.

“I…” Sam doesn’t know what to say. The truth is too bitter and hurtful.

Jon doesn’t need his words, leaning closer to press their foreheads against one another. He wonders if they could’ve grown up close had Sam been born a Mormont or an Umber. They would have ridden and eaten together, opened their wounds and doubts without fear of being judged. It should feel strange wanting to be close to a stranger he’s hardly met, but there is something there, something he can’t explain. In another life perhaps they’d been something more, this feeling a lingering connection that draws them close once again.

“I’m formally inviting you to Winterfell,” Jon says, slowly pulling away. “I warn you, it’ll be cold. I’ll have furs made for you. If you please.”

“I would like to visit Margaery.” Sam smiles easily now. “And you.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like what you read, check out my profile and other works! I'm thinking about opening requests. If you're interested, message me on twitter or tumblr @loserrobin.


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